


Home

by brittenb



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Episode: s03e05 A Life in the Day, M/M, Making Love, Mosaic Timeline (The Magicians: A Life in the Day), Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:26:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26768740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittenb/pseuds/brittenb
Summary: Quentin and Eliot make love on their first anniversary at the mosaic, and Eliot learns the true meaning of 'home'.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	Home

The night air is cool out on the mosaic, where they sit on their patterned blanket. Their faces are lit by flickering torchlight, silvery moonlight, a blaze of stars.

Eliot raises his mug. “Happy anniversary, Q. To our first and last year at this thing.”

They clink mugs, drink. Quentin glances up, stutters, moves forward. 

One hesitant, brave, questioning kiss is answered, confirmed. Soft, oh so soft, their kisses, sweet with wine: an exploration of mouths, tongues, teeth, gentle bites of lips. Hands reach for hands, twist in hair, slide under worn, faded shirts, removing the last remnants of another world, another life. They marvel at new expanses of skin to touch, to stroke, to caress.

Eliot gently presses Quentin down onto the blanket, kissing him deeply. Then, leaving his mouth with short sweet pecks, he moves to suck and nibble at a velvety earlobe. Giddy pleasure rushes through Quentin, heating him to his core, quickening desire in his belly, his cock. He moans. 

Eliot returns to drink the sound from his lips, to mouth at his stubbled jaw, down his fragile throat. He nips at his collarbones then worships the hollows and ridges with his tongue. Long slender fingers find a nipple and Quentin arches up with a gasp. Lips find the other, and suckle out gasps and soft cries.

Their breathing begins to fog in the chill air, but their skin is hot with desire. Eliot’s hands tremble slightly as he unbuttons, unzips, and unpeels two pairs of threadbare, once-black jeans. His mouth waters at Quentin’s hardness but he holds himself back, instead enveloping a big toe in the wet heat of his mouth. Bolts of pleasure fly straight to Quentin’s cock, which twitches and drips onto his belly. The sight makes Eliot groan deep in his throat. Spurred on, he searches: what will cause that twitch, that drip again? What will make him moan and sigh? A tongue to the arch of his foot, to the hollow behind his knee, kisses to his tender inner thighs, his balls, and, at last, a tongue on his cock.

Licking up the shaft he gently kisses the head, meeting Quentin’s eyes, grasping his hands. Blown pupils meet and hold as Eliot sucks Quentin into his mouth, tonguing at his slit, his frenulum, down the shaft, until he engulfs the full length in sweet wet heaven. 

“Fuck,” Quentin whimpers, and, “El.”

Eliot brings all his considerable skills into play, alternately swallowing Quentin’s cock down and sucking on the head, his clever fingers working at Quentin’s nipples, his balls, playing his body like an instrument. Quentin is helpless against him, drowning in a tide of sensation, and when Eliot presses a thumb to the sensitive skin behind his balls he is lost. With a cry he comes hotly down Eliot’s throat.

Eliot swallows down every drop then tenderly kisses Quentin’s spent shaft. He crawls up his body to lean over him, smiling down at his blissed out expression.

“I knew you’d taste perfect, Q. Sweet and salty, like my favourite cocktail. Want to try?”

Quentin hums a laugh as Eliot kisses him, sharing the flavour between their tongues. He pulls Eliot down onto him, strokes the lean muscles of his shoulders, his arms, his back, down to the softness of his slender waist. As Eliot shifts above him, he feels the hard line of his dick pressing against his thigh.

Pulling back with a moan, Quentin says, “I want to taste you.”

Eliot smirks and teases, “Didn’t get enough the first time, then? Want to come back for more? Not that I’m objecting, that is.”

Quentin’s brow creases slightly at the memory and its associations. “El, I hardly remember that night. I want to – it wasn’t – I need you to know that I –”

“Shh, Q, I know. I’m sorry for bringing that up now.” Eliot kisses his forehead in apology, then smiles sweetly and wiggles his eyebrows. “But truly, I would not object a bit to you going down on me – if you really have to.”

Quentin gives him a playful bat. “You arrogant cock, you’re lucky you’re hot as hell.”

“That’s me: hot, cocky, with a hellishly hot cock –” 

Eliot breaks off in a giggle as Quentin pushes at him with tickling fingers, forcing him onto his back. 

“Hey, you said it, they’re your words! Okay, okay, I surrender, do with me what you will!”

Quentin kisses his laughing mouth, then sits back to admire the slender body laid out before him. The dark curls spread out on the blankets, the foresty eyes ringed with eye-liner (for him, he realises with a jolt of delight – Eliot must have found and put on make-up for him), the Adam’s apple bobbing in the long throat, the lightly-haired chest and narrow hips, and at last, standing proudly from its well-manicured patch of dark hair, the cock that has featured so prominently in his fantasies, waking and dreaming, since that hazy emotion- and wine-drugged night. He reaches for it, feeling its weight in his hand, pulling back the foreskin, watching it jerk in response.

He settles himself between long legs, and opens his mouth to let the head of Eliot’s cock rest on his tongue. Eliot pushes himself up on his elbows to watch, and when Quentin doesn’t move but only returns his gaze like a challenge, he thrusts forward into the wet heat with a groan. Quentin takes him in with a moan to match, and then begins to move. 

Eliot is enchanted by the sight of those trusting eyes, the hair falling in a halo around Quentin’s face, the lips stretched around his dick. Add to this the wet tightness of Quentin’s throat, and Eliot has not a chance of lasting. His orgasm takes him suddenly, and his head falls back, his lips shaping an “oh” of surprise. He pulls Quentin up to kiss his red mouth, to search for the taste of himself on his tongue. His cock is still half-hard, and the feeling of Quentin’s strong, slender body so malleable in his arms drives him crazy. When Quentin’s dick slides against his own, Eliot grabs his arse to grind them together.

Eliot, between frantic kisses: “Q, I want you - I need to be inside you. Please, please let me fuck you.”

Quentin: “Oh God, fuck, El, yes.”

With a final exultant kiss, Eliot flips Quentin onto his stomach and covers him with the length of his body. He pins Quentin’s wrists above his head with one hand, lets him feel his weight, the hardness of his cock nestled at his arse. Lifting Quentin’s hair away from his neck, he mouths at his hairline, making him shiver with pleasure.

He whispers hotly at his ear, “Q, I’ll make it so good for you. Have you been fucked before, baby?”

Quentin moans. “Ahhh, oh God, El, I have, but—”

A spike of jealousy; Eliot stops lavishing kisses behind Quentin’s ear, moves away a little, and demands, “You have? When? Who?”

“Ugh, El, it was ages ago, at college, it didn’t mean anything. It was just – exploring – with a friend.”

“What friend? What was his name?”

Quentin groans, wriggles, pushes his arse up into the air between them, but Eliot doesn’t press back or resume kissing him, and the grip on his wrists remains unyielding. “God, El, it doesn’t matter. It was just Jared.”

“Just Jared, huh? You’ve never mentioned him before.”

“We hung out for a while in second year, fooled around a bit, and then went our separate ways. He was horny and pining after someone else the whole time, and I used the opportunity to – learn a bit, I guess. Please, El, I want you. Stop with the jealousy and the Spanish inquisition, and just fuck me already.”

Eliot smirks a little, unseen, but for pride’s sake exclaims in mock affront, “Jealous? Moi? I’m just surprised. I had thought I’d have to be extra careful with your little virgin ass, but now...”

Quentin starts to retort, but is distracted by Eliot kissing his shoulder as he releases his wrists and traces a tut at his arse. He feels the intimate tingle of Eliot’s magic inside him, cleaning him. Eliot kisses down his spine, tongues the dimples above the swell of his arse as he spreads Quentin’s legs to kneel between them. He takes Quentin’s arse in his hands, squeezing and kneading, slapping a cheek to watch it wobble, praising him: so soft, so sexy, so perfect. He surprises Quentin with a bite to one plump cheek, quickly soothing it with wet kisses. Quentin is even more surprised as Eliot moves his mouth inexorably down, inwards, until he is licking and kissing the sweet pucker. 

“Christ, El, fuck – I never even – oh God –”

Eliot smiles to himself again, while his heart clenches at this first they can share.

“Oho! Our little catamite has never been eaten out, hey? Don’t worry, baby, I’ll show you a good time.” 

And he dives back in, before Quentin has time to process 'eaten out', something he’d scarcely considered, let alone 'baby', and for the second time tonight.

Quentin is stunned by his body’s reaction to something he always found theoretically so distasteful. Eliot’s tongue lapping at his entrance, pressing, pushing inside, makes his back arch, his arse push up into Eliot’s face. Embarrassing sounds are drawn unbidden from his throat, his cheeks flush with pleasure, his stomach flips, his pulse hammers. Every sensation is new and devastatingly hot.

Short minutes, or maybe hours, later, he registers Eliot murmuring as he performs another tut, then well-lubed fingers press at his spit-slick entrance. He moans at the feeling of one long finger sliding into him.

“You like that, baby?” Eliot croons.

“Shit, Eliot, you’re un-fucking-believable. I can’t even – oh my God –” 

Suddenly Quentin can’t stop talking, a mixture of praise, profanities, moans, and nonsense streaming out of him. By the time Eliot has found that electric bundle of nerves inside him and added a second finger, a third, Quentin is practically begging for his cock.

“Please, El, I can’t – I’m gonna – fuck! yes! – please, I’m so ready – I need you –”

Eliot milks his prostate for a few more long seconds, before turning Quentin’s boneless body over again, needing to see his lover’s face as he enters him. But first, Quentin’s expression of desperate desire demands to be kissed, and his leaking cock teased with a few swipes of his tongue. Quentin is now almost sobbing with need, and Eliot gentles him, sweeping the hair out of his eyes and stroking his sides.

“It’s alright, sweetheart, I’ve got you. I’ll make you feel so good, you’ll see.”

When Quentin calms down a little, Eliot settles back between his legs, lifting and spreading them into position and arranging a blanket to support his lower back.

“You’re so beautiful, Q, I wish you could see yourself all laid out and hot for me.”

“You’re one to talk,” Quentin manages, “fucking High King Eliot the Spectacular.”

“Ah, I think you’re the one fucking High King Eliot the Spectacular,” Eliot responds, and Quentin rolls his eyes but can’t help his smile.

“I would be, if he’d fucking hurry up about it.”

Eliot grins back and slicks up his cock, pressing it against Quentin’s entrance, then laces their fingers together. He looks into Quentin’s eyes and waits for his quiet nod before slowly pushing forward.

Sliding deep into Quentin’s body, Eliot finally understands all the clichés about coming home. Home has always been a dirty word to him; he left his so-called home as soon as he could, without a backward glance, and has done everything he can to get as far away as possible, to forget. Brakebills was the first place he felt he might have an inkling what a home was meant to be, and meeting Margot taught him the true meaning of family. But this, this crashing certainty that this is where he is meant to be, this is who he is meant to be with… A hint of this feeling has been growing over this last year in Fillory (who is he kidding? for far longer than that, since he first saw that disastrous boy in the rumpled suit stumbling across the lawn at Brakebills), but now it is burning bright and clear. And what’s more, he sees his own revelation reflected on Quentin’s face, and he knows that this is it, this is what he will spend the rest of his life working to earn, to keep, to protect.

He starts out moving slowly, reverently, getting Quentin used to his size. Before long the friction and frequent grazes to his prostate stir Quentin back into a gasping mess, and Eliot begins to thrust in earnest, targeting that sweet spot with every stroke. He reaches down and fists Quentin’s neglected cock, which is red and wet with pre-come. After only a few seconds, Quentin cries out and comes, his muscles clenching down hard on Eliot’s dick, driving him over the edge too. Eliot thrusts through his orgasm, unwilling to stop until Quentin hisses at the overstimulation.

“Sorry it was so fast,” Quentin croaks, “I was so turned on, and then you touched my dick and I was a goner.”

“Don’t apologise, Q, it was perfect – you’re perfect.”

Eliot doesn’t pull out, but cleans the mess from Quentin’s belly with a lazy tut before leaning forward to gently kiss his mouth. Quentin smiles through their kisses, his cheeks wet, his hands roaming over every bit of Eliot he can reach. Eventually Eliot leans back, and slowly pulls out, holding Quentin’s legs up to watch a dribble of cum slide out of his open hole. With a groan he automatically presses the head of his cock back inside, making Quentin mewl.

“Oh baby, I can’t get enough of you,” Eliot murmurs as he watches Quentin’s spent cock twitch again. He slowly, repeatedly pushes the head of his dick through Quentin’s slick ring of muscle, watching his cum drip out, then pushing it back inside. Soon they are both fully hard again, and Quentin is moaning and pushing back at him, desperate for more of his cock. Eliot smiles wickedly at him, withholding his full length.

“Want to ride me, sweetheart? Want to take charge and get my big dick back deep inside you where it belongs?”

“Fuck!” Quentin cries, trying in vain to force Eliot’s dick further inside himself. “The things you say, El, they should be illegal. Yes, I wanna ride you, fuck.”

And just like that Eliot is pulling out, gathering Quentin into his arms, and, in what Quentin thinks is an unfairly graceful movement, lying back as he pulls Quentin on top of him to straddle his groin. He magicks up more lube and slicks Quentin’s hand, and then Quentin is spreading it on him, grasping him, and lowering himself until he is fully seated on his dick. 

Eliot thinks he will never forget this night, wants to burn these snapshots of pure pleasure into his memory for eternity. Quentin, finding the perfect angle and chasing his own pleasure with total abandon. Quentin bouncing on his dick, completely unselfconscious, his cock slapping against his own stomach. Quentin grinding down in tiny movements, moaning continuously. Quentin coming untouched, a look of pure disbelief on his face. Eliot convincing him he can come again, helping him onto his feet to sit deeper on Eliot’s cock, supporting his body, thrusting up into him. And Quentin coming again, crying with the pleasure-pain, Eliot coming with him, inside him. Quentin collapsing onto his chest, Eliot’s soft dick sliding out of him. Both of them lying there totally worn out, sweat-soaked, drenched in cum, but more content than they have ever been in their lives.

Eventually they notice the world around them again, the soft breeze cold on their sweaty skin, the mosaic hard under their knees and backs, the sticky mess between them. Quentin manages a tut to make them clean and dry, and Eliot teleports blankets and cushions from the cottage around them to make a nest. They cuddle up, sated, and smell the night air, the torch-smoke, petting each other and whispering soft nothings as they look at the stars. 

Soon Quentin yawns, and says sleepily, “I haven’t a thigh work-out like that in – well, ever. I’ll be sore for a month. Next time, I want you to ride me.”

Eliot smiles, glowing inwardly at the casual 'next time' as his dick valiantly attempts to twitch in interest, and kisses Quentin’s temple.

“Whatever you want, darling, anything you want.”

They fall asleep curled together in a tangle of limbs, safe, warm, home at last.


End file.
